


First thing in the morning

by Zeffy



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, season 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeffy/pseuds/Zeffy
Summary: The 603 opening scene and its aftermath.It's a fucked-up irony, their entire existence. A dark, twisted parody – on what they both might have, in another life. Living under the same roof, asking about each other’s day, holding each other to offer comfort and support, making love.Someone else, somewhere, is living this life instead.





	

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows it happened before. The grey morning light, grey walls, her hands on his nape, his back, her words, soothing him, holding him, his cries still ringing in her ears, his breathing rapid, his hand at her back pressing her closer, he holds onto her like his life depends on it. She closes her eyes, waits for him to calm down. Strangely, she feels herself calming down too, relaxing, and she allows herself to dissolve in the comfort of his embrace. Soon, his breath evens, his hand is not clenching them together, forcefully, any more, he rubs her back, gently, just mimicking her gesture, it feels good, being _connected_ , when was the last time she felt this way around him? Was it, ever? 

His hand is warm and solid against her back, she senses that he turns his head, buries his face in the curve of her neck, and she hugs him tighter, thinking – not thinking, just - wishing it will last and – maybe, in another life, if he were better, they could hug like this, but –

She's pretty sure she feels his lips on her neck, but maybe it's ok, maybe he doesn't mean to –

\- because he wouldn't –

His hand goes down, slowly, it's still ok, isn't it, nothing threatening, no lines crossed, just –

He reaches the spot between her shirt and pants, a place where her back is bare, touches her skin - not intentionally, of course, his hand lingers on the small of her back, so warm and –

Fuck. He slides his palm under her shirt. She should stop him now. How can she stop him? It can't happen, just -

And his lips are unmistakably on her neck. He is kissing her neck, nuzzling it gently, up to the spot below her ear and -

“No, Quinn, no,” she says. Or does she? The words are stuck in her throat, she can't get them out. His hand slides up, and it's the moment she has to detach – no, not really, it's gone way too far already, but –

It's like she's having an out of body experience. Her brain is working, but her body doesn't comply. In her mind, she pushes him away, stands up, yelling at him. She sees it clearly, like it happens in parallel, elsewhere, where she is hurt and angry and sad, because, she thinks of the way it should be – 

But in this reality, at this moment, she is leaning into him, her head tilts back, giving him better access to her throat, and he takes the opportunity, and it's too late to stop and she can't anyway, she gives in, it's strangely exciting, and so wrong on every level, it's just –

Her shirt goes off. She feels his touch, melts under his kisses that trail down from her clavicle to her breasts, she stops breathing as his lips close around her nipple, and she moans as he sucks it in, bites it gently, rounds it with his tongue. She's painfully aware of his hand on her stomach, caressing her, going lower, and she's dying for his touch, she senses his thumb easing under the waistband of her pants, stroking her belly, she's so wound up already she thinks she will explode at the first contact –

His palm goes further down and under the fabric, she moans, cries almost and –

She wakes up, from the sound of her own voice, panting, in her bed. Her tee-shirt is all damp, her forehead is sweaty and her heart is racing. She sits up, catching her breath. It's the middle of the night, everything’s dark and quiet. 

Shit. 

What is wrong with her? 

Her heart aches – for him, for his vulnerability, for those harsh words that she snapped at him in the morning. She didn't mean that. She rubs her face, her eyes, trying to distract herself from thinking, to go back to sleep, but it doesn't help. 

She knows, impulsivity is a part of his condition. Emotions, forming in the limbic system of his brain, are not controlled by the prefrontal cortex, as they should, going straight to the surface, without a filter. Or something like this. Quite common for post-stroke patients, they say. It might get better, they say. Not his fault, still, it's so unlike him, it knocks the ground from under her feet, completely. 

It hurts.

It's a fucked-up irony, their entire existence. A dark, twisted parody – on what they both might have, in another life. Living under the same roof, asking about each other’s day, holding each other to offer comfort and support, making love. 

Someone else, somewhere, is living this life instead. 

He's so broken, so changed, she has no way of knowing who he is now. Literally, his personality transformed, on a physical level, with damaged brain tissue, broken neuronal paths. She can only hope he will get better, changed or not - just wants him to be able to account for himself, make his choices, and find some balance and peace, as she did. 

She can't hope for more.

She doesn’t know how much he remembers of their shared history. No, she thinks, his memory is intact, but – on emotional level. She's never wondered before, everything was just bleak – a constant struggle, with him, for his own life, against self-destruction. 

Today she wonders, though.

He is such a mess, angry, lonely and hurt, stuck with his disabilities, having no control over his life. She knows she is annoying him with her care, tries to back off, giving him privacy, but she can't trust him to take care of himself. Not yet, anyway. 

She wonders if he feels bad about his actions, is he ashamed, terrified, hurt by her rejection, or if it just adds to his self-loathing, his feeling of unworthiness, or if he doesn't care at all, or unable to focus on such things. 

She doesn't know how to put it in words, and he won't listen anyway. She wants to go down and hug him again - to reassure – him, or herself, or both of them – that it still can be fine, that there is hope and, maybe - 

But hugs are no go territory now. 

Or not. Maybe, she still can do it. Just not right now. First thing in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued!


End file.
